“Kid
you got a golden thumb,” declared Cortis Haire. He had
picked up the bright-eyed hippie outside of Los Angeles heading
north on his pedal to the metal push towards Seattle. Cortis was
an independent big rig driver, bringing up a fifty-pallet load of
brake shoes to the Pacific Northwest. He was clean and sober
twenty-eight years and an ordained minister of some church his
passenger never heard of.

Ian
Greengrass, riding shotgun, told tales Bronx-style but also knew
when to listen. He was a college kid from New York, heading to
Alaska to join his pal Noel to work in the woods and earn a
year’s tuition in one summer. He regaled Cortis with
stories of his monster hitches. The Bronx to Albuquerque,
Albuquerque to L.A., and finally L.A. to Seattle. Cortis admired
the boy’s courage and envied his freedom.

Their
second day of hauling was coming to a close as they passed the
exit to Seattle. The Reverend Haire dropped him off in an
industrial yard, shocking Ian when he hugged him goodbye. The
young hitchhiker threw his backpack on over both shoulders,
looped his arms in the straps and headed for the dock that housed
the Alaska Marine Highway System.

The
Northern Star was boarding and fortunately they accepted
traveler’s checks. Ian took a spot on the top deck, threw
down his sleeping bag on his rubber camping mat and closed his
eyes for a second.

Three
hours later he awoke in the middle of a crowd of longhaired
future loggers and fishermen headed for Ketchikan.

“Only
forty-one hours to go,” a raspy voice boomed and a
blond-haired, blue-eyed Goliath of a hippie handed Ian a pipe
with a stream of gray smoke billowing out of it.

“Right
on,” Ian mumbled and took a long hit. The summer of ’73
looked promising.

“Dan
Carter,” roared the giant and gave Ian’s hand a
bone-bruising shake.

As
the day and night wore on, Ian listened to the story of Dan
Carter from his childhood in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where he was
the son of a cop and a school teacher, to his glory days as a
football all-star defensive lineman, to a tour in Vietnam as a
grunt humping the Delta, to his return to the Minneapolis area
where he was a roadie for Leo Kotke, and on and on until Ian’s
eyes fluttered from the combination of verbal assault and
righteous Moroccan hashish.

When
Ian went into a nod, Dan shook him awake to make another point.
The Nordic looking Neanderthal was a mountain man with a motor
mouth. But his big baby blue eyes showed his real character: a
giant sweetheart.

Like
it or not, Ian had a new friend. Given Dan’s linebacker
size, Ian felt lucky to have a possible guardian, if Alaska
proved to be hostile or as his parents feared, virulently
anti-Semitic.

Dan
was thrilled to find out Ian was Jewish, as was the love of Dan’s
life, Tandalao Taubenblatt. She was volunteering with Cesar
Chavez in Delano, California, and would join Dan in Ketchikan
after he got settled.

Dan
listed every Jewish deli he and the lovely Miss Taubenblatt had
visited across the Midwest.

“Bro,
you’d love her,” Dan said with a mighty whack on
Ian’s back. “She eats like a Marine and throws a
football like Broadway Joe.”

The
Northern Star’s horn blew two ear-shattering blasts as it
maneuvered into the port of Ketchikan.

Ian
checked his Bulova, a high school graduation present from his
parents, and was shocked that it was 10:30 p.m. and the sun was
still shining brightly. He had missed some scenery watching on
the trip but his heart beat fast as he looked up at the mountain
jutting its majesty over the horizon of the village.

As
the passengers of The Northern Star disembarked, Ian noticed a
discomfort in Dan’s eyes. Big and confident as Dan was, Ian
felt the urge to rescue. Descending the gangplank, Ian inquired,
“Bro, you need a place to crash?”

“That
would be righteous, little brother,” said Dan, smiling.

Ian’s
eyes did their usual crinkle and he instructed the blonde Yeti,
“Follow me.”

Searching
the crowd, Ian heard a loud Bronx “Yo.” Noel and a
ringlet-haired hippie maiden appeared out of the crowd.

Hugs
went down like an Italian wedding as Ian introduced Dan to Noel.
Naima introduced herself to Ian with an arm around his neck and a
kiss on both furry cheeks. She smelled of patchouli and
peppermint. Then she reached up and hugged Dan too.

“I
invited Dan to crash, is that cool?” Ian whispered to Noel
on the sly.

“No
problemski,” Noel answered with a crinkle that made him
look like Ian’s brother.

“More
the merrier,” Naima chimed in.

“Let’s
go catch a buzz,” said Noel and led the newcomers to the
Foc’sle Bar, one of the many local watering holes and
renowned dens of depravity.

Noel
burst through the doors of the bar like a cowpoke in a John Wayne
movie and hooted, “Go ahead on her.” Ian was later
informed that this was the all-clear signal yelled by the choke
setters on the ridge for the crane operator to yank the log up or
down hill, as the case may be; the bell and loop of the cable
hopefully tight and secure. There was evidence of errors in the
Foc’sle as many young men were missing arms and legs.

The
crowd rebel yelled back to Noel, and the bartender, a
six-foot-seven Haida Indian named Roy or Running Bear, depending
on his mood, poured four shots of Everclear for Noel, his lovely
maiden and the two newbies from the lowlands.

As
they knocked back the high-octane shots, Noel explained to the
new arrivals that no matter how shit faced they got, to never,
ever ring the bell behind the bar at the Foc’sle. Then
they’d have to buy everyone in the bar a drink and if they
were short the dough-ray-me, they’d get tossed in the bay.
Twenty minutes in that water, even in summer, could cause a heart
to cease pumping.

Naima,
who was really Naomi Siegel from Ocean Parkway, was a hot little
number and a world-class flirt. Dan and Ian were thrilled to be
around her, as was every other male in Ketchikan. Noel seemed to
have no jealousy, making Ian suspect that this hippie angel was
just a chick he had fun with, not the love of his life.

Her
braless breasts bounced around in her peasant blouse, nipples
prominent and visible, bringing happiness to the Pacific
Northwest. Summer in The Shadows, the hidden rock beaches
bordering the island under steep pine covered inclines, seemed to
be lit up by her glowing presence.

Naima
took her name from the wife of John Coltrane and gave it new
definition. Both men and women in the bar leered at the
ringlet-haired curvy imp, and she had yet to pay for a drink
since she hit town six months earlier.

The
party was loud and rancorous at the Foc’sle. Some shoving
matches and fistfights exploded. Running Bear’s towering
six-foot-seven frame moved rapidly around the bar as he grabbed
the brawlers by the scruff of their necks and tossed them like
lawn darts out onto Front Street.

“Let’s
chow down,” Noel announced and Dan picked up the tab with a
healthy tip. Running Bear nodded his appreciation and the hippie
quartet headed out into the night.

It
was 11:30 p.m. and still not totally dark, but a light rain
misted upon the island. Naima linked arms with Noel and Ian. Dan
planted a massive paw on Ian’s shoulder and together they
resembled a trippy crew heading to Oz.

They
ascended a hill, which ran out of pavement and became a steep
wooden staircase. Bawden Street was a wooden structure that
wrapped up a steep incline thick with foliage and pine-covered
chasms. A ray of moonlight peeked through the newly formed clouds
and illuminated home – a rented cabin in the sky officially
recorded by the postal service as 619 Bawden Street.

Huffing
and puffing with Everclear heads spinning, they made it to the
front door of the cabin. Noel lifted a board on the porch where
the key was stashed and they fell through the door laughing.

Ian
and Dan removed their backpacks as Naima started a fire in the
potbelly cast-iron stove. Noel lit a joint and put on an album.
The E Street Band and their Boss filled the cabin with a
distinctive east coast sound.

The
cabin was a one bedroom with a small bathroom, kitchen and living
room with shag carpeting. There were feminine touches everywhere
from sketches to extra floor pillows to macramé wall
hangings. The large outside deck off the kitchen revealed a
panoramic view of Deer Mountain.

Dan
and Noel went out on the deck to star gaze. Naima went into the
kitchen to start chopping vegetables for the wok. Ian offered to
help in the kitchen and Naima handed him a knife and he took over
the veggie dissection duty.

Ian
prided himself on his dexterous mushroom slicing and in about
thirty minutes the new family sat down to a dinner of stir fried
vegetables, brown rice, some reheated Red Dog Salmon and Olympia
beers.

The
fire in the potbelly heated the cabin, and after many
conversations, stories and gut wrenching laughter, everybody
cleaned up and got ready for sleep. Ian and Dan put their
sleeping bags on the carpet near the stove and Naima and Noel
headed off to their bedroom.

Naima
left the door open a crack. Ian and Dan’s eyes were drawn
to the opening as Naima lifted her blouse, removed her peasant
skirt and panties, and then shut off the light. They barely
breathed.

Moments
later Dan was snoring like a Kodiak bear in hibernation. Ian
tried to sleep but sex sounds drifted in from the bedroom. Ian
put on his hooded sweatshirt and tied the drawstring of the hood
tight to block out the competing sounds. Soon he drifted off.

Running
Bear closed the Foc’sle at 4 a.m., pushing the drunk
laggards out the door. He was coming off working a double and
after putting the cash receipts in the safety deposit shoot at
the bank, he headed to a party on the dock with some crew from
the Haida Girl. The fisherman told fishing stories, hunting
stories, and ancestor stories which Running Bear had heard a
million times, so he drifted from the party to his hotel room to
get some shut eye.

There
was an envelope taped to the door. He recognized the perfect
handwriting and felt a panic building in his chest. He opened the
envelope.

Dear
Roy:

We
have had enough. I am taking Quahu and leaving. When we get

settled,
I’ll contact you.

I
hope you stop drinking and find the Lord.

Christine

Running
Bear winced and almost laughed at his wife’s new American
name. Kind-A-Wuss was her Haida name and she caught a longboat
full of shit over it growing up, so he was not surprised at that
development.

His
rage began to rise like clouds across the moon and he raised his
left fist and slammed it clear through the door.

Terrified
neighbors cracked their doors and peered out, but nobody said a
thing. They feared Running Bear for good cause. His temper had
put fellow tribes people and whites alike in the Ketchikan
Emergency Ward. Even the local police were scared of him and
never answered domestic calls if he was involved.

His
woman’s recent conversion as an evangelical really lit his
fuse, and rereading the simple note, he trembled.

He
strode out of the hotel with a glazed look in his eyes, and a
bloody left hand full of splinters. With a totem pole grimace as
a facial expression, he headed out of town up the hill towards
Deer Mountain.

Noel’s
alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. and he was up and making coffee,
showering and smoking a Camel, not in any particular order. He
had a job at the spruce mill since leaving the logging camp at
Thorne Bay and he liked the five-minute downhill commute.

Naima
had a morning counter shift at the Short Stop Diner and she was
looking particularly fetching in a too tight tank top, jeans and
clogs. Her ringlets were tied up on her head and ethnic earrings
dangled alongside her slim neck.

Noel
kissed Naima and bid the boys “Later,” then he
bounded down the mossy staircase known as Bawden Street.

Dan
checked the phone book for the local VA to seek employment help
and Ian hustled through a shower and put on work clothes.

Naima
invited the boys to a discount breakfast at the diner, so they
hid the key under the board and made their descent to
civilization.

The
town was experiencing its morning rush. Hippies and rednecks
rushed to one job or another. Drunks woke up in doorways and
headed back to the bar. A tourist boat navigated towards the
docks. The seiners, trawlers and gill netters headed out to sea
to fish the many species of salmon and halibut to put food on
tables and green paper with dead presidents in wallets.

The
sky was gray and a mist hung low. It was breezy out and the air
was sweet with pine. They hit Front Street, hung a right, and in
a few short blocks Dan and Ian were at the counter gulping hot
cups of joe and scarfing eggs, bacon and toast.

Lena
and Katie were two other waitresses at the Short Stop; Katie’s
mom owned the joint. They cheerfully handled the boisterous crowd
of dockworkers, fishermen, cold storage guys and anything and
everything in a hard hat. The girls were pretty and got a lot of
attention. Men outnumbered women about seven to one on the island
so they got hit on day and night. All three were expert at soft
rejection with a response of “Thanks bud, but I got a
honey.”

Breakfast
in their bellies, Dan headed to the VA and Ian lingered a moment
to talk to Lena. She gave him the name of the foreman at
Phillip’s Cold Storage as a job possibility, and when Ian
paid his reduced bill, he left her a large tip.

As
he headed out the door, Lena called him back, palmed his tip into
his hand and in a low Lauren Bacall voice uttered, “Save
your money, sugar, buy me an Oly Beer sometime instead.”
She gave his cherubic face a little pat. Ian watched her ample
hips sway as she sashayed back into the Short Stop. He knew that
her departure was for his benefit and he was excited about the
prospect of getting to know Lena.

Ian
hotfooted down Front Street determined to gain employment.

Phillip’s
Cold Storage was a fish cleaning and freezing establishment with
an ex-Army Colonel foreman name Phil, no relation to the owner.
Phil prided himself on recognizing talent and graduated Ian from
cleaning guts to shovel detail in the ice room. A promotion day
one.

A
gill-netter had docked and needed ice. Ian shoveled like a madman
onto a rotary belt that pulled the ice into the hull of the boat.

“Let
gravity do it,” Phil barked over the din of the whirring
machine turning the ice transportation belt. Phil had already
instructed Ian to line his boots with newspaper because that’s
how he had survived frostbite on Arctic duty.

The
red-faced Colonel charged up the mountain of ice like Teddy
Roosevelt mounting San Juan Hill. Phil grabbed the shovel from
Ian and demonstrated how to create an indoor ice avalanche.
Physics and old-fashioned common sense were the lessons of the
day. Ian caught on fast and Phil rebel yelled like a Friday night
at the Foc’sle at the young man’s success. Ian joined
in; two happy lunatics howling like timber wolves in a giant
freezer.

Phil
spent three wars turning boys into men. Phil had heart. His men
followed him and trusted him, and today he taught a boy and gave
him a tool.

At
the end of his shift Phil gave Ian an “Attaboy” with
a slap on the back and a sock-eye salmon to take home.

Ian
walked Front Street with a workingman’s pride in his
stride.

The
Ketchikan VA consisted of a Tlingit veteran from Korea who had
survived Pork Chop Hill. He gave Dan the blow by blow of the
battle till Dan was cross-eyed. Dan knew he was getting some of
his own medicine in a long-winded soliloquy from Sergeant Joe
Little Wolf and made a mental note to shorten his own
storytelling.

After
going through the multitude of jobs around town, Joe suggested
Dan take the post office exam. Dan loved to walk and talk and be
outside, so he thanked the sarge and headed to the postal hut to
pick up the necessary forms.

As
he headed down the street, an immense figure bumped his shoulder.
Dan turned to take up the challenge but then recognized the
bartender from last night.

“Hey
Roy,” Dan called. “The street ain’t wide
enough?”

Roy
continued to head uphill and never turned around. Dan figured the
big man had been nipping at his own watering hole and being new
in town he decided to let it go. He was not in the mood to brawl.

Lena,
Naima and Katie were marrying the ketchups before locking up the
Short Stop. As they consolidated the viscous red liquid, the
radio was playing the OJ’s new hit, “Money, Money,
Money,” and Naima shook her curves as her two sisters in
food service hooted and egged on her impromptu go-go routine.

Ian
passed by and peered through the mist-fogged window. He blushed,
then broke into a wide grin as Naima strutted around with a
ketchup bottle.

Catching
him gawking, Lena went through the kitchen, out the back, snuck
around the front and grabbed his ear like a schoolboy.

“Gottcha!”
Lena brayed. She pulled Ian into the diner announcing, “This
boy is a peeping Tom!!!” The girls laughed loudly.

Naima
pulled him into the middle of the diner and started dancing with
him. Ian blushed through his peach fuzz beard, but started some
of his better Motown dance steps from high school. The girls
urged him on.

He
still had his bag with the fish and pulled the sock-eye out and
danced with it. The girls doubled over laughing hysterically. He
did Tango and dips with the fish and when the song ended, he
bowed to wild applause from the ladies.

Ian
presented the sock-eye to Naima like a bouquet and Katie cracked,
“She was hoping for a trouser trout.” Lena and Katie
slapped five.

“Noel’s
department,” Ian quipped.

Lena
sang out the soul song “Too Many Fish in the Sea,”
and her girlfriends laughed again.

“There’s
enough salmon to feed us all,” Ian said.

“You
got guests for dinner,” Lena shouted.

Ian
helped them put the chairs on the tables and lock up.

As
Ian escorted the three ladies outside and uphill, he sensed that
he might get lucky soon.

Noel
punched the clock at five on the dot and was the first out the
door of the spruce mill. Earlier his foreman had caught him
napping behind a machine and called him “Sleeping Jesus.”
His coworkers got a laugh and he got a new nickname.

Passing
the dock on the way to get a quick cocktail at the Rainbird, Noel
saw Dan sitting near a pylon. He placed two fingers in his mouth
for a Bronx schoolyard whistle.

Dan
looked up and Noel mimed drinking. Dan folded up his paperwork
and his postcard to Tandalao and jogged up a plank to meet Noel.

As
Dan approached, Noel hollered, “Ready to toss back a few?”

Dan
answered like a Thorne Bay choke setter “Go ahead on ‘er.”

They
shared a soul handshake, then headed to the watering hole.

It
would have been sunset down in the lowlands, but over the island
of Ketchikan, a gray mist of light shimmered.

Running
Bear sat by a waterfall just trying to catch his breath. He had
caught many Dolly Varton in this stream and usually cleaned and
cooked them on the spot. Once in a while a black bear would peek
out of the shrubbery, but there were no grizzly on this island.

Alone
and distraught, his heart pounded. Despite his attempt to keep
calm, the anxiety and sadness gave way and tears fell from his
big brown eyes.

Kind-A-Wuss
and Quahu were his whole world and now they were gone. Running
Bear knew they had to be in Seattle staying with his wife’s
sister.

Quahu
had just turned two and he and his father had a deep bond. Since
his birth, Kind-A-Wuss had shot down Running Bear’s amorous
attempts on a regular basis. He was drinking more, and more
often. His lack of interest in Christianity severed the
connection to his wife completely.

Now
she had abandoned The Shadows, the island’s nickname from
the old timers.

Running
Bear picked up a small boulder and threw it like a shot put into
the stream. He released it with a howl that echoed down the
mountain. As the sound bellowed through the woods, animals and
afternoon hikers froze in their tracks, trying to assess what
they had heard.

“A
man should not have his son taken from him,” Running Bear
uttered in his native language to his reflection in the stream.

He
hated the mainland and its inhabitants, but he knew he has to get
his son and bring him home. The descendant of Haida chiefs stood
up tall, dried his face with his sleeve and headed down the trail
to town.

There
are one hundred and two steps up the slippery moss staircase
known as Bawden Street. The girls were panting as they ascended.
Ian stopped, took the fish out of the bag again and used it as a
puppet, hiding behind the sock-eye and speaking in a Bela Lugosi
Hungarian accent. “The children of the night. Vot a strange
song dey sing.” The girls laughed through their heaving
breaths.

He
continued, the sock-eye speaking in a far east accent like a
Himalayan sherpa urging the girls to “Stay on dee path.”
They begged him to stop because it hurt to climb and laugh.

Lena
pinched Ian’s behind several times on the way up. It was
becoming clear who his dance partner would be.

They
completed their upward journey, found the hidden key and entered
their mountain cabin in the mist.

Noel
and Dan were shit-faced. Face down in the ant races.

Some
redneck crew-members from a trawler out of Craig did not like
hippies getting too happy in their favorite bar. The Rainbird was
a white boy watering hole. Indians and hippies favored the
Foc’sle.

One
of the crew tossed a shot glass and it hit Dan in the head. Big
mistake. The former linebacker from Minnesota was up like the
ball had just been snapped into play. Despite his inebriation, he
picked the guy up by his neck like a rag doll.

His
compadres tried to pull Dan off to no avail.

Suddenly
the tussle was interrupted by a shrieking “Wooo,” the
kind heard at rodeos and rock concerts.

Noel
was up on the bar in just work boots and socks, his clothes in a
pile on the barstool.

Mary
Bigmouth, a Haida crossing guard from the public school, had
wagered Noel a fifty to streak the bar. Streaking was a new fad
in the lowlands and Noel took that action like a bookie from the
Bronx.

As
Noel howled, Mary punched B13 on the juke and “Satisfaction”
roared in the tavern.

The
crowd of men and some appreciative local women cheered Noel on.
He shimmied, bumped and grinded up and down the bar like a pro.

Dan’s
jaw dropped in amazement as he dropped the shot glass assailant
on the floor.

The
Rainbird regs has seen some shit in their joint before, but
nothing like this. The place went wild with a standing ovation at
the finale. Dollars were thrown and Mary Bigmouth planted a big
mouth kiss on Noel’s lips.

The
crew from Craig apologized to Dan and offered him a job on their
tub.

“Naw,
thanks, but much appreciated,” Dan said, not wanting to be
outnumbered at sea. Waving and thanking everyone again, Dan
dragged Noel out of the Rainbird with Mary’s help.

Running
Bear’s rep at the Foc’sle was solid. He was
trustworthy and kept the bar safe. He had never asked for an
advance in seven years, so his boss didn’t even ask what it
was for, but Running Bear suspected word of his wife and son’s
departure had made it through the rumor mill.

The
jetport at Ketchikan was on the water and was simply a tower and
a tarmac. The big silver bird lifted off for a two-hour jump to
Sea Tac Airport.

Kind-A-Wuss’s
sister had an apartment off Pioneer Square in Seattle. Running
Bear had saved one of her postcards with a return address. His
hunting instincts could work in this city as well as the
mountains.

The
shower at 619 Bawden Street was large enough to serve as a small
steam room and the occupants of it were in varying states of
ecstasy.

Lena
was straddling Ian and Ian could not believe his quick luck.

“God
Bless Alaska,” he moaned.

The
ladies responded with three different laughs.

Naima
and Katie were entwined in mutual masturbation. They writhed like
serpents in the mist of the makeshift sauna while Ian watched
from the corner of his eye.

They
worked each other like possessed demons, the energy that
electrified the wet room connecting their rhythms. When their
chorus of moans reached a crescendo, they hooted and chortled in
a group orgasm. Had there been enough room, they would have
collapsed.

Ian
thought if he died right now he would die a happy man.

Then
they tumbled out of the shower like the guests in a steamship
stateroom in a Marx Brothers movie and all fell apart laughing.
Their laughter was now tinged with a shared secret.

Toweling
off, the nymphs and one young Satyr realized that they had worked
up an appetite. They got dressed and headed to the kitchen to
turn mister sock-eye into a hearty mountain meal.

“These
are a lot of Goddamn steps,” Dan complained as he and Noel
made their ascent up the slippery slopes of the staircase
boulevard.

“Fuckin-A,”
Noel responded, huffing.

They
put their heads down and continued climbing and bitching. As they
reached the summit, the aroma of a good meal reached their air
grabbing snouts.

“Something
smells awful good,” Dan said with a grin.

“Time
to strap on a feed bag,” Noel responded.

They
entered the communal chateau where candles and a table with
mismatched plates and cutlery were set.

“Hi,
honey, I’m home,” Noel hollered, doing his best Ward
Cleaver.

Naima
threw her arms around Noel’s neck and kissed him long and
hard.

“That’s
what I call sugar,” Dan said and Naima welcomed him with a
hug.

Lena
and Katie greeted the boys with a couple of cold Oly’s and
Ian gave his bro a hug and soul handshake to Dan.

The
new family gathered for another salmon, vegetable and brown rice
dinner.

Ian
got the vibe from his female playmates that the erotic games
should remain their secret. He wasn’t sure if Noel knew of
Naima’s taste for women, and didn’t want to be the
messenger in a Greek play.

The
Bawden Street mob ate, drank and talked late into the moonlit
evening.

Skid
Row in Seattle had junk stores with anything and everything money
could buy. Running Bear wandered around them and managed to pick
up a Bible and a bottle of ether. The junk shop had a Haida clerk
who asked in his tribal tongue why Running Bear wanted ether. The
giant from Ketchikan explained that he had to put down his aging
dog. The clerk squinted an affirmation and rung up the sale.

The
orange sun began its descent into the horizon on the Pacific as
Running Bear passed a half dozen trailers double-parked off
Pioneer Square. He saw klieg lights and camera equipment. Passing
one of the trailers, a door popped open and out stepped that
famous actor he remembered from his childhood trips to town.

The
matinee idol didn’t look so big and bad in real life. He
was pale and haggard, wearing a cheap squirrel gray toupee.

His
eyes met with Running Bear’s. He looked up at the huge
Indian and inquired in a friendly tone, “Who you playing,
son?”

A
short bespectacled girl with a walkie-talkie and a clipboard ran
to the actor and squeaked, “I finally found you. They need
you in this shot, Duke, uh, Sir.”

“Don’t
get your panties in a bunch, Myrtle. I’m coming.”

He
nodded to Running Bear and as he did in so many reels, he
departed into the sunset.

Running
Bear remembered booing that cowboy in the movies and cheering for
his brother Comanches.

The
island man checked the address and trudged across the square.

Days
and nights were a blend of gray sky and permanent mist. Ian’s
biological clock was on the blink and despite hard work, good
food and great sex, he sported gray baggage under both eyes and
he was becoming concerned about his alcohol consumption. He made
a pledge to himself to spend less time tossing back a glass and
look for overtime at the cold storage.

Lena
had become less available as the days wore on. The more Ian
showed feelings for her, the more she retreated. He reminded
himself that his goal was to earn green paper with dead
presidents to pay for school. He set his mind on his task of
becoming a working class hero.

Dan
was booking day jobs, writing to his girl and waiting for his
test date at the post office.

Noel
and Naima and the crew at the Foc’sle seemed to be settled
in their blue-collar routines of working hard and playing hard.

Ian
sensed tedium in their lifestyle and knew this was a place to
make a score and then get going.

Sitting
under a raven headed totem pole just south of town, Running Bear
held his boy in his arms. He had just gotten off the silver bird
from Sea Tac with his napping son.

The
Seattle police were slow on domestic violence calls, especially
if it involved natives. Running Bear had brought Christine the
bible. When she opened it to read the inscription, he pounced on
her and held an ether soaked bandana to her mouth and nose. She
went down fast. Her sister entered the apartment and started
screaming. Running Bear was on her in seconds with the dowsed
cloth and soon she was on the linoleum and unconscious too.

Running
Bear hotfooted it to the back bedroom. Quahu was in front of the
TV watching Heckle and Jeckle reruns. The TV’s volume had
drowned out the screaming. When Quahu saw his father, he reached
his little arms up for a hug. Running Bear grabbed his son,
burying his face into his barrel chest, and hurried out of the
apartment through the rear fire escape.

Within
an hour he was in the air with Quahu headed back to his island.

Joe
Little Wolf’s second son Jesse was a desk sergeant with the
Ketchikan police. They were a small force but had a lot of heart
and had to deal with many belligerent drunks on the job.

Jesse
took the call from Detective Bill Constantine of the Seattle
Police. One of his units had reported an attempted double murder
of two native women in Downtown Seattle, and one woman and her
son were now missing. The other woman gave a full report of her
estranged brother-in-law’s attack. Constantine wanted the
authorities in Ketchikan to be on the alert.

Jesse
hung up the phone and shook his head in disgust. Jesse grew up
with Roy and knew how troubled his childhood friend had been
these last few years. He motioned to his white partner Rick
Everett, a transplant from Coo’s Bay, Oregon, and the new
rookie on the force.

They
grabbed their holsters and headed for one of the two squad cars.
Rick had learned to read Jesse’s expressions and watched
with concern as his partner’s jaw tightened with tension.
They reported to their captain via radio and the crackling voice
of Captain Red Barry 10-4’ed their call. The cap was busy
at the other end of town with a fender bender.

Jesse
pulled out of the gravel lot with his low beams illuminating the
light rainfall.

Thursday
paydays meant full crowds at the bars Thursday nights. The Bawden
Street crew was cash heavy and amped to party.

They
caught the early show of “Sometimes a Great Notion”
at the movie house, then King Crabs and beer at a fish joint. By
nine p.m. they were at the curve of the bar at the Foc’sle
getting loaded.

Dan
was winning arm wrestling matches as Noel, Naima and Katie
cheered him on. They won bets on the Nordic Yeti boy bout after
bout.

Lena
was being sweet to Ian after a few days of estrangement. As they
drank she got friendlier and her life story babbled out of her
mouth. She had a kid who was with her mother in Sitka. The kid’s
father had been killed in a firefight in the village of Pleiku in
Vietnam. “I’m trying to heal,” she put it
bluntly, her hand caressing Ian’s thigh under the bar.

The
Foc’sle was like a saloon in a wild west movie. Hooting and
hollering and frontier type characters. Flirtations and
fistfights. American alcohol induced chaos at hand.

Running
Bear was pouring double shots with a twisted grin that gave him a
maniacal expression.

Quahu
was fast asleep in Mary Bigmouth’s arms at the end of the
bar. The child was oblivious to the life exploding around him.
Mary guarded him like a mama bear with a cub. She had raised five
boys and her hugs were known as the best on the island.

The
Foc’sle started vibrating as “The Way You Do The
Things You Do” by the Temptations blared out of the jukebox
speakers. Madness was alive and well at the Foc’sle. The
many summer visitors from the mainland were living what they
thought was the Alaska dream. Blue-collar jobs, money in their
pockets and hopes of getting a gig on the new pipeline.

As
the bar rocked on, several hours south Kind-A-Wuss white knuckled
the rail on the top deck of the Northern Star. She peered at the
horizon, never blinking. She calculated her itinerary in her
head. She was no longer Christine. She only closed her eyes to
summon the images of her ancestors to buoy her soul.

Sergeant
Jesse Little Wolf and Patrolman Rick Everett had checked the
hotel and then went up to the waterfalls with flashlights to see
if Running Bear was hiding out in the woods.

Jesse
squinted into the darkness and listened for stirring or snapping
branches.

The
great grandson of a Tlingit chief turned to town and saw a few
lights still burning in the bars downhill. He grunted and Rick
knew their next move.

Four
a.m. was closing time for Ketchikan saloons. The watering holes
reopened at seven a.m. and the hard-core cases huddled in the
doorways for three hours of snoring on the sidewalk. There were
no public intoxication laws and no laws against prostitution, so
all urges could be satisfied with only a few greenbacks.

The
Bawden Street crew stumbled out at closing and began their uphill
ascent via street and wet wooden staircase.

Locking
the door of the Foc’sle, Running Bear was startled by a
loud “Blooping” sound. Jesse Little Wolf turned on
the driver side searchlight and the siren with two more bloops
and announced over his loudspeaker, “Roy, don’t
move.”

Quahu
awoke from the eerie siren sound and started crying.

Sergeant
Jesse and Patrolman Everett exited the squad car and slowly
approached. Running Bear moved backwards and away from the two
officers.

Out
of the corner of his eye, Running Bear saw a short figure move
towards him and make a grab for the child. He backhanded the
attacker and his eyes bulged as he saw Kind-A-Wuss flying towards
the police. Her mouth and nose gushed blood from the blow.

Running
Bear turned in a state of panic, put the boy under one arm like a
football and sprinted into the shadows. He made an immediate
right and began running uphill.

Sergeant
Jesse was pacing behind him, pleading with him to stop. The white
boy officer was helping Kind-A-Wuss up, but she broke away from
him and followed Sergeant Jesse and her fleeing husband.

Rick
Everett freaked out and froze for a second, then gathered himself
and joined the chase.

Running
Bear lowered his head and compensated for the angle of the hill
to gain momentum and speed. All four runners fought the hill’s
incline, breathing in pants and puffs.

Running
Bear hit the staircase just as a large cloud cleared the moon and
lit up the entire town, turning night into day.

Bawden
Street is a staircase with one hundred and two steps and Running
Bear took them two at a time.

Sergeant
Jesse and Patrolman Everett drew their weapons but the presence
of the little boy made them cautious. There was no way they
wanted to fire on Roy. Everett had never used his gun except on
the firing range.

Ian
and Lena were at the top of the staircase street when they heard
pounding and felt vibration in the wooden slats. The rest of the
crew came out on the front porch to see who was yelling and why.
Ian saw the bartender running up towards him with the child
crying and kicking.

Kind-A-Wuss
turned and tripped Everett, grabbing his revolver. Her daddy had
taught her to swim, fight and how to use a firearm for hunting
and protection. She aimed the weapon with two hands and dropped
to one knee on the staircase to steady herself. Jesse’s
figure bobbed in and out of her target.

Running
Bear’s heart was beating hard and fast. Just a few more
steps to the top. Jesse cleared the target for a few seconds and
Kind-A-Wuss did what her daddy had taught her to do. She squeezed
the trigger and let two bursts go just as Roy touched the last
step.

Roy
was loosing his balance and handed the boy to Ian for fear of
dropping him. The big man regained his equilibrium and reached
for the child as one bullet flew into his back and the second
into the rear of his skull.

Running
Bear stood in shock, staring at Ian. The light in his eyes dimmed
and his pupils went still, reminding Ian of all the dead fish he
had cleaned in the past month.

The
large six-foot-seven man started falling backwards.

“Gravity…Gravity…No,
God, no,” Ian screamed.

Noel
and Dan tried to reach out and stop him but the big man began
tumbling fast, head over heels, accompanied by loud thumping
sounds as he hit each step. Running Bear’s body knocked
Sergeant Jesse to one side and picked up speed like a human
avalanche. Everyone was screaming but the big Haida man kept
tumbling.

The
Bawden Street crew howled like a nightmarish cadre of banshees.
Running Bear flew past Kind-A-Wuss and Everett and slammed onto
the road at the bottom of the staircase. The bone crunching final
thump was the worst of all.

In
one move, Sergeant Jesse grabbed Kind-A-Wuss and cuffed her as he
took her weapon.

Everett
approached the big man who now resembled a broken doll. He
checked the pulse, a ridiculous action, then stepped away and
threw up.

Lena
took the crying boy into the house. Katie called the station and
got Captain Red Barry on the horn. Ian, Dan and Noel just looked
at each other in shock.

Within
seven minutes Captain Barry, an EMS crew and a crowd of townies
were at the bottom of the staircase. Kind-A-Wuss was in cuffs in
the back of the squad car as Red talked to his two officers in
hushed tones.

Red
saw Mary Bigmouth in the crowd and summoned her over. She
solemnly climbed the staircase and fetched little Quahu.

The
night was becoming dawn as the moon and sun passed one another in
the same sky.

There
was a week of inquiries and interviews with the Bawden Street
crew. Eventually they were left alone, but the devastation was
still omnipresent in Ketchikan. The town was in mourning.

Ian
could not sleep nor lose the image of Running Bear’s last
moment. He quit his job at the cold storage. Shook hands with
Phil. Hugged and kissed Lena and the girls. Bid Dan best wishes.
Noel walked him down to the dock.

As
Ian boarded the ferry he turned to Noel and even though it was
falling out of vogue, they threw each other the peace sign

Forty-four
hours later the ferry docked in Seattle. Within an hour Ian’s
thumb stopped a microbus. He was welcomed in by a vacationing
schoolteacher named Sandy Pitler and his blonde wife who were
headed back home to the Bronx. His golden thumb was not tarnished
one bit. As Sandy told Ian stories of teaching in the Bronx,
Ian’s eyes fluttered. Slipping into a nod, the last thing
he heard was Phil’s voice in his head hollering, “Let
gravity do it.”

Allan
Wasserman
is a Bronx-born writer, actor and musician. His short story
“Finkelstein the Bear” won second place in the 2005
Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers. His screenplay
“Toughest Cat in the Bronx” received the Moondance
Film Festival 2005 Columbine Award, and “Bozza” was a
2006 Nicholl Fellowship Screenwriting Competition quarter
finalist. His acting credits include recurring roles on The
Sopranos
and Curb
Your Enthusiasm;
he has also appeared on The
Office, ER, Seinfeld,
Todd Haynes’ Safe,
this year’s Funny
People with
Adam Sandler and others.